The Great Northern Alliance
by AntaresTheEighthPleiade
Summary: In which Bloodraven, rather than waiting for things to go wrong, warns Ned and Cat that winter really is coming. Cue some very interesting preparations for the oncoming Long Night. 50% crack, 50% other (but not Other).
1. The Madness Begins

I own neither show nor books. Please do not sue.

You can read parts either in the order presented or in chronological order (i. ii. iii... xviii.)

 _i._

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Catelyn. Would you mind telling your lord husband that he is not, in fact, insane?"

Beside her, Ned had gone completely rigid, eyes round in his pale face. Confused, Cat looked around, but she was unable to see anyone but them in the godswood. "Did you see who that was, my lord?"

Her husband jerked as he turned to her. "You heard that as well?"

"Of course," she replied, beginning to feel that she was missing something. "Who is it?"

Ned's eyes flitted toward the towering weirwood. Still confused, Cat followed his gaze.

"Here," the tree said, _looking_ at her with its bloodred eyes.

Cat screamed.

 _vi._

Theon Greyjoy would never admit it, especially not to a baby like Robb (or, Drowned God forbid, to his sisters or bastard brother), but he really wished that he'd been sent literally anywhere else for fostering. The rumors about Winterfell and the North were… unpleasant. Not that he believed them, of course—they were ridiculous—but there was still a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that they really did water their tree gods with the blood of their enemies, that he would be a human sacrifice. But sacrifice or not, everyone knew that Northmen were dumb, backwards brutes.

When he finally got to Winterfell, he was relieved to find definitive proof that the horror stories he'd heard weren't true. He was _not_ relieved to find that the truth was so much more insane.

 _v._

Catelyn sent for a septa after Sansa was born, mostly so that her daughter would have a tutor in the womanly arts. She appreciated the sept Ned had had built for her and the septon he'd summoned to man it, she really did, but it was hard to keep the Faith of the Seven when you'd spent the last two years plotting against the reemergence of an ancient war with an unnaturally old Targaryen-Blackwood sorcerer who could only communicate with them through ravens and trees ( _gods,_ her life was strange). Still, Sansa and any potential unborn daughters would need to learn needlepoint and such, and all her children (not to mention her nephew) would need to know about the Faith even if they never followed it.

Alas, Septa Mordane was not truly fit for the new Winterfell that was taking shape. To her credit, she managed to mostly ignore the talking ravens, the fellow from the Isle of Faces, and the old albino woman whom Cat (and most of the household) was convinced was actually a child of the forest in disguise. It wasn't until the more blatant bits of sorcery started manifesting that the poor woman's "health problems" really began.

Or maybe she was simply canny enough to realize that a baby as active and loud and wild as Arya would be impossible to mold into a proper lady and cut her losses while she could. Cat really couldn't tell.

 _xvi._

No one was quite certain how the two enormous direwolves snuck around the guards, made it past the walls and gates and doors, and plopped themselves down outside Lady Catelyn's chambers. Ned and Cat didn't even know they were there until he opened the door and nearly tripped over one of the great bloody beasts.

Ned stared at them for a long, long moment. The direwolves stared back.

"Are they being warged?" Cat asked, coming up behind him.

"I don't think so," Ned confessed, bemused.

"So they came here of their own free will?"

"So it would seem."

Cat sighed. "We'll need to speak with the guard about how they got in."

"Of course," Ned agreed.

The he-wolf grinned at them. The she-wolf wagged her tail.

 _ii._

When Ned and Cat finally worked up the courage to return to the godswood, it was with fire in her hand and Ice in his. They approached cautiously, warily, perching on the balls of their feet.

"I'll not harm you," the tree sighed. Ned glanced at Cat, who nodded back to him ever so slightly. They'd both heard _that voice_ two days before, the voice that had scared him witless when he finally returned to Winterfell with his sister's bones and his sister's secrets weighing him down. He'd feared he was going mad, then, broken from guilt and grief and stress, but the fact that his lady wife had also heard it laid that particular worry to rest. Now, of course, he had other things to worry about, because whatever this was, he doubted it would speak with him without good reason.

"Are you a god or a greenseer?" Ned asked cautiously, angling himself so that he stood between Cat and the weirwood. He'd initially thought it was a god, but a few cautiously worded, _completely_ _hypothetical_ questions to Old Nan had reminded him of the other beings who could supposedly communicate through heart trees.

"I am a greenseer," the voice proclaimed, carved lips twitching into a thin smile. The weirwood's face had changed, Ned noticed, the features not quite so long and somber anymore, one bloody eye gummed shut with sap. It was an old face, the nose large and drooping, the bark rough and wrinkled, a red stain ghosting across the right cheek. "I am the last of the greenseers, at least for now."

Ned was not sure he liked the sound of that, not certain if he was relieved or troubled that this was a greenseer and not a god. He decided to think about it after receiving more information. "Why are you speaking with us, my lord?"

"Because winter is coming, Eddard Stark, and I would be an irresponsible idiot if I didn't do everything in my power to guard the realms of men."

 _vii._

The second septa spent more time in the Academy, as it was often called, than she did watching Sansa and Arya. When she wasn't glaring at the people in the Academy or carrying out her actual duties, she spent a great deal of time scribbling increasingly hysterical letters to the High Septon and attempting to bribe people into carrying them down to the Great Sept of Baelor.

Fortunately for Winterfell, nobody was particularly interested in tattling to the head of a foreign religion. The North wasn't exactly hiding its preparations for the incoming Long Night, but they weren't really advertising it, either, and thanks to the relative lack of southron spies (and near-complete lack of southron interest), few people south of the Neck had any idea what was going on. Sure, they'd noticed the sudden increase in shipbuilding, but since most of the White Harbor fleet was designed to double as trade vessels and they had just finished putting down the ironborn, not many people outside of Stark territory cared that much.

Unella lasted just under a year until she couldn't stand it anymore and set out for the Sept, intent on giving her report in person. No one was particularly sorry to see her go.

"She thinks we're out to destroy the Faith. Do you think Robert will believe her, Cat?" Ned asked worriedly, watching her ride away.

Cat thought of the talking trees, the Green Men, the ghosts, the everything else….

"I think we're safe, Ned."

 _xvii._

One seemingly random day when Jon Snow was eleven, his lord father called him aside for a talk. A few hours later, the twelve-year-old boy (because he was twelve, it was his nameday, he hadn't even known his real nameday or his real _name_ ) left his lord uncle's solar with a story spinning in his head and a small chest in his hands.

Back in the safety of his room, Jon (not his name, never his name, but—he didn't know how else to think of himself. Certainly not by that other name) found himself opening the chest, partly to gaze upon the treasure within and partly to make sure that it was all real. It was. He stared in stunned silence at the dragon egg, white as snow with whorls of ruby (fire and blood), his hands ghosting across its hard surface. It was warm, he observed dazedly, warmer than a stone should be.

("She'll be useful in the Long Night," Ned told him four years later, after an unfortunate accident involving Ghost, a turnip, and a misaimed fork had resulted in one new-hatched baby dragon, "but couldn't you have waited to hatch her until _after_ Robert's visit?")

 _ix._

Jaime was guarding Jon Arryn that day, which mostly involved standing decoratively around the throne room as one peasant after another brought their insignificant complaints before the Hand of the King (and tried to pretend they weren't disappointed that the king himself was "busy"). It was boring business that made him glad he'd given up his inheritance, because he couldn't imagine having to pretend to care about disputes over chicken ownership or irregular cobblestones.

Then the High Septon waddled in, trailed by a gray rake of a woman, and suddenly things became interesting.

Arryn and the High Septon exchanged the mandatory pleasantries before the fat priest nudged the woman forward, introducing her as Septa Unella, who had apparently been serving at Winterfell and had "immensely disturbing information" about what the Starks were getting up to in their frozen wasteland. This "vital intelligence" turned out to be the hysterical ramblings of a madwoman convinced that Eddard Stark was preparing to drag Westeros into a new era of sinful evil heathenism by training various Northern savages in the dark arts of their tree gods. He might _claim_ to be preparing for the next Long Night, but it was obvious that his real intention was to march south with his army of monsters, sorcerers, and tree worshippers to utterly annihilate the Faith of the Seven and all that was good, pure, and holy in the land of Westeros.

By the time she was halfway through, Jaime was biting his lip to keep from laughing, but he couldn't completely fight back his laughter. Several snorts escaped, prompting dirty looks from the High Septon and his entourage.

Jon Arryn was more composed, though not even he could completely hide his bemusement. "I see," he finally said, once it was clear that Unella's raving died down.

"My Lord Hand," the High Septon began, "in the name of the gods, I beseech you to put a stop to this wickedness!"

Arryn spent the rest of the morning (and a good part of the afternoon, too) explaining that no, he would not arrest the Warden of the North or take his children into custody or invade Winterfell or reform the Faith bloody Militant just because one painfully dubious source (not his words, but certainly implied) thought that Ned Stark—his foster son, a man he knew personally, his wife's own good-brother—was the source of all evil.

"Then what will you do?" demanded Unella frantically. "Do you intend to wait until the armies of wickedness are at our door?"

"…I shall begin by writing him a letter."

"A letter?" squawked the High Septon.

Unella looked surprisingly relieved. "I think that he will confess," she assured her master. "He did not even try to hide the depths of his depravity."

"A letter?" Jaime asked once the delegation was gone and they could finally get some lunch.

"I helped raise Ned. He's completely incapable of deception and couldn't tell a lie to save his life—or the life of any family member, for that matter." A slight smile. "Also, he might find this funny."

Jaime had heard that Northmen had no sense of humor, but Unella's ideas were pretty hilarious, so he didn't say anything.

Apparently Ned Stark did have a sense of humor, or at least enough to find Unella's ridiculousness funny. He wrote back that he was indeed preparing for the Long Night (though not the destruction of the Faith) by funding an Academy of magic, and if anyone from King's Landing wanted to see his preparations, he would be happy to host them at Winterfell.

Robert read the letter and laughed so hard he nearly puked. Upon recovering, he nonsensically declared that clearly, marriage had been good for his old friend.

"What do you mean?" Cersei demanded.

"I mean that obviously, his wife has taught him sarcasm."

 _iii._

The Great Hall of Winterfell was silent, its inhabitants hardly daring to breathe. It felt almost sacreligious to break the silence, but Ned knew full well that it needed to be broken.

"Rise and be welcome in my hall."

The man—clad in green from head to toe, his skin painted with green runes, crowned with a great heavy antlered headdress—looked up and smiled. "The honor is mine, Lord Stark."

 _x._

The third septa tried very, very hard to ignore the supernatural activities all around her. She avoided the Academy and its residents. She pretended that Sansa and Arya weren't looking forward to their first lessons in magical theory. She even managed to subtly change the subject whenever Septon Chayle (who had adjusted to the North much better than his co-religionists) referenced something that she didn't want to know about.

Her mistake was that she had a tendency to take out her pent-up frustrations on Jon Snow.

Oh, she was subtle about it. "Bastard" or not, Jon was greatly loved by his family, and he wasn't the sort of boy to complain about that sort of mistreatment. Brood on it, yes, not complain. Nor was he the type to seek vengeance.

His lady mother was a bit more vindictive, however, and soon the septa found herself haunted by an angry ghost.

(When the septa fled, Jon left a bouquet of blue roses on his 'aunt's' grave.)

 _viii._

They had started formally presenting the children to the heart tree shortly after Bloodraven made his presence known. Cat had reasoned (and Ned had agreed) that if the children were going to be raised in a magical madhouse, they might as well get used to it early, learn at a young age that the talking tree was nothing to fear. Besides, the greenseer had a tendency to drop cryptic hints about the children's futures that might help their parents prepare.

It had also led to the revelation of Jon's true parentage, so the practice had already come in handy.

The tree stayed quiet for a long time, gazing at the newest baby with its single red eye. Wind whispered through the weirwood's leaves, but the greenseer within said not a word.

Bran stared back in equal silence, his little face confused.

Finally Brynden Rivers smiled, sad and triumphant at once. "This one has power, even more power than his siblings or cousin," he announced simply. "When he is older, I must needs teach him how to use it. Only then will I be free to die."

Catelyn Stark had long grown used to the cold of the North—but still, she shivered.

 _xv._

Cat knew full well that Uncle Brynden wasn't just here to visit his eldest niece. He was one of the Hand's best knights, doubtless here on his lord's command.

She and Ned greeted him courteously and warmly, introducing him to all the children, Theon and Jon included. He raised an eyebrow when the supposed bastard was allowed to sit at the high table with them, but since his niece didn't mind, he refrained from commenting. Cat was glad of that.

Her children were fascinated by their 'new' uncle. Every Stark child save Bran, who was still a babe, pestered him for stories, and he was all too happy to oblige them.

Finally, the children were down in bed and the adults could meet in relative privacy. "We decided to show you outright," Cat explained as she led her uncle through the godswood.

Brynden Tully raised an eyebrow, gestured toward the wing of the castle they used for the Academy. "I thought your school was over there?"

"It is," Ned confirmed, "but the reason we founded the Academy is out here."

But Brynden wasn't paying attention. Instead, he stared in horror at the great gush of green-tinted flame that suddenly erupted from the tower's window. Moments later, a huge _boom_ reached their ears.

Cat and Ned kept walking.

"Something just exploded," Brynden pointed out. "Why are you not concerned by that?"

"We have alchemists trying to rediscover how to create glass, Valyrian steel, and other useful things," Cat explained.

"We're used to it by now," Ned agreed.

Brynden looked from the burning tower to his niece and her husband with an expression of pure incredulity. "And you're going to introduce me to the reason for all this?"

"Of course." Cat gave a gentle tug on her uncle's arm.

Ahead, the heart tree watched with a single red eye.

 _xiv._

The High Septon was going to have an apoplexy, Jaime thought. His lips twitched. Oh, he very much hoped he could somehow see the man's face when word reached him of Ned Stark's latest stunt. If the supposedly humorless Northman kept this up, Jaime might actually start to like him.

"I didn't know they still knew how to breed weirwoods," Robert said, staring at his friend's gift. "And I thought that only children of the forest were supposed to carve the faces?"

"The singers of the songs of earth are few in number, Your Grace," said the green-clad messenger who had come with the weirwood, "but there are enough of them to carve a few trees every year. This one bears the likeness of Ser Brynden Bloodraven."

Well, that explained why it was so ugly.

"Planting it might offend the Faith," Jon Arryn pointed out once the messenger—Ronnel, Jaime thought his name was—had left to scout out the godswood for a good place to plant it.

"Tell them it's a sign of unity or something," Robert instructed. "As long as Joffrey doesn't start sacrificing to it or anything, all they'll do is grumble. Also, Joffrey is not allowed to sacrifice to it."

And then Jaime had to poke at his ears, because he could have _sworn_ that the tree was laughing at them.

 _xii._

The fourth septa had the misfortune of arriving on the same day as a delegation of giants. She took one look at the huge hairy beasts with their mammoths and enormous spears, then turned around and walked away.

 _iv._

Ronnel had been in Winterfell for almost a year before he started talking about the possibility of a school. A few people made it to the Isle, he admitted, but most didn't realize that his order still existed, much less that they were willing and able to take students. Besides, the Isle of Faces lacked the sort of facilities that Winterfell possessed, and they had an unfortunate problem with potential students capsizing and drowning to boot.

Ned was against this at first, but a few days of contemplation later, he found himself warming to the idea. More magic in the land meant more people willing to prepare for the Long Night, after all, if only because more people would believe that it was on its way.

So he granted Ronnel and any other potential instructors leave to use an older building on the northern part of the grounds as an academy.

A half-dozen more Green Men, two woods witches, two _maegis_ , four wildling wargs, three Westerosi skinchangers, and one archmaester later, he began to wonder if that was really a good idea.

 _xi._

"You're certain?" Ned asked, his face grim.

"I'm certain," Cat replied, as grim as her lord husband.

When she'd been betrothed to Brandon Stark all those years ago, she'd never expected to be anything other than a lady—not that being Lady of Winterfell was a paltry responsibility, of course, but she had expected to lead a somewhat chillier version of her mother and grandmothers' lives. She hadn't expected the magic, or the oncoming winter, or to fall in love with Brandon's quiet younger brother. She definitely hadn't expected to found and head the North's first (slightly illegal, but no one enforced those laws anymore) network of spies since Aegon's Conquest.

Now, looking at the reports from the Dreadfort, she was glad that she had.

Ned's face darkened further. "Thank you, my lady."

A month later, when word reached her that the Dreadfort had fallen, that Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow were dead, she smiled.

 _xiii._

The fifth septa was a spy for the Faith. Ned was rather surprised it had taken them this long to send one and considered returning her to King's Landing, but she wasn't a particularly good spy, so he let her stay. The Faith would just panic more if they didn't have someone in Winterfell, and this way, he could control what information went south.

Come to think of it, the fourth septa had probably been a spy, too. Good thing the giants had scared her off.

 _xviii._

Arya's hair was still wet, but she couldn't wait any longer. Wrapping her towel around her prize, the nine-year-old made a beeline for the Great Hall, where Father and Mother were holding court. She and Nymeria, one of Frost and Blizzard's pups, slid into place behind the next petitioner. The girl was practically vibrating in excitement; the wolf's entire rear end wiggled, she was wagging her tail so hard.

Her parents noticed her right away, of course. Father even raised an eyebrow at the bundle in her arms. But there were other petitioners ahead of her, so she forced herself to wait her turn. Amazing as her discovery was, it wasn't exactly all that urgent.

After far too long a wait, Father gestured for her to come forward. At his side, Blizzard pushed himself from his comfortable lounge into a sitting position, his ears pricking up, while Frost did the same next to Mother. It might just be because Nymeria was so close, but Arya liked to think that her parents' direwolves knew how important this was.

Arya reached the place the last petitioner had stood and dropped to her knees. Even she recognized that this was an occasion for boring formalities. "My lord," she announced, "I've found something of yours in the godswood pool." Taking a moment to savor the curious anticipation in the hall, she slowly unwrapped her towel to reveal—

-a sword, a great two-sided broadsword with a weirwood hilt and a blade of shimmering blue-white ice. A sword that had been lost or hidden long centuries before and replaced by a weapon of Valyrian steel.

"The original Ice, my lord," Arya proclaimed, her voice loud and clear in the stunned silence of the Great Hall. "Isa."

The wolves flung back their heads and howled.

* * *

This might become a series one day, depending on whether or not I keep coming up with ideas. It would be called the "Useful Bloodraven AU" and would combine crack and drama, much like this one in tone. Our fandom needs more crack, guys. It is known.

-Antares


	2. The Madness Continues

_iii._

His Grace Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, was drinking when a man of the Night's Watch arrived with a message from his dear old friend Eddard Stark. Later on, Barristan Selmy would try desperately to convince himself that things would have turned out very differently if Robert had been entirely sober. He never quite succeeded.

It was not unusual for Robert to receive this sort of missive from Ned. The two were old friends and their personal letters back and forth were often too big for a raven to carry all the way between Winterfell and King's Landing. Then, of course, there was the official business of the King and the Warden of the North. Consequently, Barristan thought nothing of this latest letter until Robert burst out laughing.

Again, this was not unusual. The once-stoic Northman had developed quite the sense of humor since his marriage, and he and the king had a longstanding inside joke about an academy of magic and the Long Night. (Well, that was what the king—and most of the court in King's Landing—thought, anyways.) Robert found it hilarious and tended to approve his friend's increasingly bizarre requests, something that Ned had fortunately never taken advantage of but nonetheless would have given the small council conniptions if the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been allowed to tell them about it.

So really, there was nothing unusual about the king's reaction until his face, already rosy from the wine, turned a truly alarming shade of crimson. Even the crow-turned-messenger's befuddlement was normal, as Lord Stark's couriers (usually trusted merchants, sometimes guards) weren't privy to the old friends' back-and-forth and they were almost always unprepared for Robert's inevitable amusement.

"Fetch me a quill and some parchment," Robert ordered his squire once he had recovered enough to talk. When the boy returned with the items, the still-chuckling king scrawled a quick note. "Oh, and the royal seal too! And sealing wax. It's funnier that way." The boy scurried off.

This was the part where Ser Barristan began to experience concern. However, after nearly sixteen years in Robert's service, he knew better than to try to protest. Robert did as Robert pleased. But, the knight consoled himself, it was just another of their jokes. Surely Ned Stark wouldn't _really_ ask for something too outlandish.

Soon Robert was handing the sealed note to his squire, ordering the boy to bring it directly to Pycelle and have it sent to Winterfell.

"Your Grace?" said the messenger, speaking for the first time since he'd arrived. "Lord Stark is at Castle Black."

Robert grinned. "Of course he is. That would explain where he came up with this idea."

The messenger looked like he didn't know whether or not to say anything. He opened his mouth briefly, then clicked it closed and nodded wordlessly.

"Ned always knows how to cheer me up," the king told his knight. "He's outdone himself this time, though. Now, what's taking that girl from Chataya's so long?"

 _x._

Robert had been swearing for quite some time, Cat noted. She had to admit, if only to herself, that perhaps Bloodraven had a point about putting Jon on the throne. He'd managed to hatch a blasted dragon last night; if its very existence didn't get them all executed as traitors, Heartwing could serve as undeniable proof of his heritage. It wasn't like Robert had any legitimate children, so a war with the Lannisters was probably inevitable anyways. She'd have to talk with Ned about it.

"Are you finished yet?" the talking tree demanded sardonically, looking as unimpressed as Cat felt.

"That's Brynden Bloodraven?" Robert repeated yet again, gesturing wildly at the weirwood's face.

"Yes," Ned confirmed once more, his patience sounding a bit forced.

"Just like I was the last few times you asked," the tree snapped sardonically.

Robert swore.

 _xiv._

"May I help you, my lord?"

Tyrion startled, spun around to see a young woman with an armful of books—and a bloody direwolf that sat tamely by her side—looking at him. Her Tully coloring (and the bloody direwolf that sat tamely by her side) identified her as the older Stark girl, Sansa.

"My lord?" she repeated. "May I…." She paused, seeming to realize why Tyrion was hesitating. "Lady shan't harm you, I promise, not unless you attack me. Then she'll tear out your throat."

"Then I shan't attack you," Tyrion replied, forcing a smile. Apparently she hadn't figured it out.

Sansa smiled back. "There is a ladder over by that wall, my lord. You can't see it from here because that book shelf is in the way."

Ah. Perhaps she _had_ realized. "Thank you," he said, referring to both the advice and the graceful way of letting him help himself. "I—"

Something made a great booming noise. A half-second later, something crashed. Several somethings, actually.

Tyrion jumped. The wolf—Lady, was it?—looked completely undisturbed, but there was a hint of worry on Sansa's face. That probably meant that the explosion was something atypical even for this madhouse.

"What was that?" he asked nervously.

"It was probably just another attempt at making Valyrian steel gone wrong," Sansa answered, a slight frown on her lips. "I do hope there aren't any more. They know we've had to lower the explosions budget recently, so they really ought to be more careful."

…explosions budget. The Starks had a bloody explosions budget.

Tyrion laughed, because it was either that or cry. Gods, he needed a drink.

 _i._

When Daenerys was a girl of twelve, a raven had brought her a letter.

She hadn't been entirely certain how the bird had found her, though she had strongly suspected that the rumors of Northern sorcery weren't quite as absurd as Viserys claimed. She'd written back, if only to learn if her suspicions were correct.

They were.

Over the years, the raven had come time and time again, always waiting until Viserys was gone before offering her its load. It gave her letters and coins that she carefully hid, connection and hope.

Khal Drogo was a huge brute of a man who didn't speak a word of her language. He frightened her, but Viserys in his ruthlessness frightened her more. All forty thousand of Drogo's men, them and their horses, too, he had said, if that would get him his kingdom.

No. Daenerys would not allow it, not while she had another option.

And so she gathered her coins and her letters and some of her clothing. She cut short her silver hair and rubbed mud in it, stole a set of Viserys's less conspicuous garments to wear to the docks.

Then she left.

Winterfell would be safe for her.

 _vi._

Eddard Stark stood before the tomb of his sister, his eldest son and nephew by his side. After a few moments of waiting, the air filled with an indelible sense of presence.

Jon smiled. "Hello, Mother. Do you like the flowers?"

The lady's statue, adorned with a crown of forget-me-nots, seemed to smile slightly.

"Hello, Lyanna," Ned said, staring into the statue's sightless eyes. He knew that his sister wasn't exactly in the statue, but he lacked Robb and Arya and Bran's ghost-sight and had always found it easier to look at the statue rather than stare into the air. "I need to ask a favor of you. Could you gather up the ghosts of Winterfell and bring them here?"

"She says yes," Robb translated. Sure enough, the sense of presence was rapidly fading from the air.

"I wish I could see her," Jon sighed.

"She should be able to manifest again soon," Robb assured him. "You can see her then."

"I know. Still, I can't help but envy you and the others."

The air was filling again, a thick heavy sense of hundreds upon hundreds of unseen eyes all watching them. Robb looked from ghost to ghost with an expression of wonder on his face. Finally he announced, "Aunt Lyanna is back, Father."

When Ned spoke, it was in accented but acceptable Old Tongue, a language that all Lords of Winterfell were expected to know even if they didn't use it very often. "Robert Baratheon, the King of Westeros, is coming to Winterfell. He will arrive in two days. If this visit goes well, Robert will be much more amenable to defending the realms of men during the next Long Night. That being said, he… is not like the Kings of Winter, and many of you will be tempted to haunt him and his court. I ask that you refrain from doing so."

Robb winced. Ned looked askance at him.

"…They're all laughing at you, Father."

Ned groaned. Considering that Lyanna had presumably been complaining about Robert to them for years, he really should have expected that.

 _xvi._

Cat had no idea why her son's cryptic words about shrouds and crowns had disturbed Cersei Lannister so badly, but the queen looked ready to pass out. Bran, for his part, seemed completely unruffled, which she supposed was better than Arya's badly concealed amusement but was still not at all appropriate. Hands on her hips, she frowned down at her little greenseer.

"Brandon, what is the one thing I asked you not to do this month?"

He looked down at his feet. "Frighten the southrons."

"And what did you do?"

"…frighten the southrons."

"Exactly. Now apologize to her at once."

"Yes, Mother."

 _iv._

"Aren't these things supposed to be fancier?" asked Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall, staring down incredulously at the letter from King's Landing.

"They usually are," Maester Aemon, once of the House Targaryen, informed him, "but as long as it bears his seal and signature, it's completely valid."

Mance shook his head. "I can't believe you did it, Ned," he stated.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was more than a little surprised himself. For a moment, he wondered if this was some sort of joke, but that was ridiculous. There was absolutely no way that Robert would pardon Mance Rayder for desertion, confirm his appointment to the lordship of a vast unclaimed territory to the northwest, allow the alliance of the living to come south of the Wall, and grant them full citizenship just as a _joke_.

"Who cares if it's fancy or not?" demanded one of the wildling—free folk—chieftains, a great bear of a man called Tormund Giantsbane. "Let's just go through with it before he changes his mind."

Mag the Mighty, last king of the giants, nodded his agreement. He couldn't speak the Common Tongue, but he understood it well enough.

"Yes," murmured one of the only woman in the group, a wise old singer of the song of earth. "The quicker we move our peoples, the more firmly entrenched we'll be if he reconsiders and the harder it will be for him to force us out. Now, does anyone have any last-moment amendments to the treaty?"

No one did. They'd hammered out the final details while waiting for Robert's response. Hostages, laws, territories, everything they could think of, it was all there, awaiting the king's approval.

Jeor Mormont, 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, heaved a heavy sigh. He understood, of course, why this agreement was necessary. That didn't mean he liked it. "There's still enough daylight to get to the godswood grove. No point in waiting." He stood. "Let's go."

They went.

 _ii._

Sam wasn't certain how an offhand comment that he wished he could just stay at Winterfell and become a wizard had turned into him explaining why, exactly, he was supposed to take the black, and to Jon Snow of all people. The bastard warg listened to his tale with a steadily darkening expression.

When Sam finished, they sat in silence for a few moments. Finally Jon spoke. "The Night's Watch could always use good men, but I think you'd be of more use here, learning magic and researching. Stay."

"But my father—"

"—is in the Reach. What's he going to do, declare war on the North? You're safe here, Sam, if you want to be."

He hesitated, a lifetime of fear warring against a lifetime of dreams. "He sent men with me. An escort."

"We can tell them that my family is sending a group of men to the Wall within the sennight, so they don't have to stay with you." Jon grinned. "It's even true, if a bit misleading."

 _Freedom_. "You mean it? You really mean it?"

"Of course," said Jon.

"Then…." Sam swallowed hard. "Then let's do it."

 _xiii._

Ned stared.

The dragon stared back.

Jon fidgeted.

"She'll be useful during the Long Night," the Lord of Winterfell finally stated, "but couldn't you have waited to hatch her until _after_ Robert's visit?"

Jon flinched. "It was an accident," he explained apologetically. He gestured faintly towards the dragon, which made a noise halfway between a hiss and a cheep. "Do you think I can keep her hidden in my chambers until they're gone, or should I risk smuggling her out of the castle?"

Ned frowned, considering. Each plan had benefits as well as downsides. Slowly, grudgingly, he admitted, "I doubt you could spirit her all the way to Graywater Watch or Castle Black with so many people around." Jon hadn't even dared to bring the dragon out of his bedchamber, instead asking (begging, really) his uncle-turned-father to come inside.

"I thought so myself," Jon admitted. "I suppose I'll be spending quite a bit of time in my chambers, then."

"It would seem so," Ned agreed. He stood, made for the door—there was no way his absence would go unnoticed for much longer. But just as he was about to exit, a stray thought made him pause. He turned around. His nephew was there, dragon and direwolf by his side, silver hair dyed dark brown, eyes gleaming indigo in the firelight. "What will you call her, Aemon?"

His smile was a mix of Rhaegar and Lyanna. He did not comment on the use of his birth name. "The Targaryens of old named their dragons after the gods of Valyria, but my gods have no names. I will call her Heartwing, for the weirwood tree."

Eddard Stark smiled. "A good name."

"It is."

 _v._

It wasn't often that anybody tried to force Robert Baratheon into a small council meeting and even rarer that they succeeded. Barristan couldn't help but wonder what Lord Varys said that made the king abandon his usual pastimes in favor of carrying out his duties. From the look on Robert's face, he wasn't too certain, either.

Renly was the first to speak. "Well, what's going on?" he asked.

Varys opened his mouth. Closed it. Grimaced. "Your Grace, I don't mean to question your wisdom. That is the last thing I want to do. However, given the… developments…in the North, I feel the need to ask _why_."

"Why what?" Robert grumbled. "Nothing's happened in the North lately."

If Varys had had hair, he would have torn it out then and there. "I'm referring to the wildling migration, Your Grace."

The bottom fell out of Barristan's stomach.

"Wildling migration?" repeated the Hand. Barristan didn't think he'd ever seen him look quite so horrified, not even when Brynden Tully had inexplicably quit his position and disappeared into the hill tribes. "What wildling migration?"

"It's just one of Ned's jokes," Robert said dismissively. "He wrote me a few weeks back asking permission to ennoble that Mance Rayder fellow and let the wildlings past the Wall." He laughed.

"He wasn't joking," Varys replied. There was a faintly shrill quality to his voice. "Eddard Stark signed a treaty with the so-called King-Beyond-the-Wall, and now tens of thousands of wildlings are migrating south of the Wall as we speak. This isn't a joke, Your Grace, my lords, it's actually happening."

"What?" Robert asked, blank-faced with shock. "Are… are you completely certain, Lord Varys?"

"Yes!"

"Oh." Robert blinked. "Damn."

 _xii._

Sometimes, Bran wished that he couldn't see the ghosts. He usually liked talking with them—Bael especially knew the best stories—but they could also be… distracting.

"Look at him," Aunt Lyanna growled. " _Look at him_." She gestured wildly at the fat king, who was red in the face from drinking and groping a serving girl's bottom. "And in front of his wife, too!"

"I know," sighed Uncle Rhaegar. (Bran and Arya were reasonably certain that he and Aunt Lyanna were Jon's birth parents, but he'd never quite worked up the nerve to ask them and Arya very adamantly didn't care. There were ways that it wouldn't matter—Jon was their brother no matter what—but Bran knew enough history to realize how dangerous it would be to harbor the real heir to the Iron Throne.)

"Cersei Lannister's an adulterous bitch, but this is disgusting."

"It's almost enough to make you feel sorry for her," agreed Aunt Elia.

"Arya, go send Nymeria to bite him in the ass."

Bran's sister choked on her mashed potatoes, prompting concerned inquiries from Princess Myrcella.

"And risk them having Nymeria put down?" Uncle Rhaegar chided.

"Oh." Aunt Lyanna flushed. "I didn't think of that."

"There are many reasons that your brother needs to keep the king's favor." Uncle Rhaegar looked at Jaime Lannister sitting near his sister; at Dalla Rayder and her sister Val, uncomfortable at the high table but determined to make a good impression for their people; lastly, back at the section where Jon sat.

"…Do you think it would count against Ned if I told Robert exactly what I think of him? I have enough energy to manifest."

The king slapped another serving girl's rear. She scurried away as quickly as she could, face red with humiliation.

"Do it," Arya whispered. Bran nodded his agreement, though Robb was frantically shaking his head.

Myrcella and Tommen were beginning to look concerned.

Aunt Lyanna drifted over to where Robert Baratheon wined and dined, adjusting the crown of winter roses that she always wore so that it was especially prominent against her dark locks. Her form shimmered.

Gasps erupted around the entire hall. The king's chicken leg fell clean out of his mouth.

"You disgust me, you whoremongering drunk!" Aunt Lyanna shouted, jabbing at Robert's chest. "I'm glad I eloped with Rhaegar!"

Her form shimmered again, and she vanished from most mortal eyes. Grinning, she returned to her place by the three niblings who could see her.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

 _viii._

Barristan had always tried to take care of his own horse, so he went to check up on her as soon as he could. The knight entered the stable and froze midstep, his jaw hanging slack.

"Ser?" asked an enormous stable boy. "Are you all right?"

"That's a bear," Barristan said faintly. "Why is there a bear in one of the stalls?"

The stable boy blinked at him, genuinely confused. "Where else are we supposed to put her?"

"In the forest, where bears belong! And—good gods, is that a unicorn?"

"Not all skinchangers' beasts are as friendly as the Starks' direwolves, ser," the boy explained. "But don't worry. All the ones in the castle are trained too well to attack anyone. Lord Stark's not going to risk alienating the king."

Barristan had a sudden horrible vision of having to fight off an army of large carnivores. "I… see."

"Don't worry," said another voice, one that carried just a faint hint of ironman's accent. Theon Greyjoy was grinning at him, clearly far too entertained by Barristan's incredulity. "You'll get used to it."

 _xvii._

Jon had never truly believed the tales about Vermax leaving a clutch of eggs in Winterfell's catacombs. The only dragon egg hidden therein had been in his mother's tomb, and it came from Vhagar. Now, though, he was forced to reconsider, for where else would the direwolves have come across a clutch of not just two or three but _six_ dragon eggs?

"How did you smuggle these through the castle?" he demanded, knowing full well that it probably had more to do with the lateness of the hour than anything overtly supernatural. Well, he hoped, anyways. "I know you aren't being warged."

Ghost grinned at him, completely unrepentant.

"Put them back," Jon ordered.

Ghost looked at his siblings and parents. As one, the pack sat. Nymeria batted her egg forward with her paw.

"All right," sighed Jon, "but I'm not going to hatch them."

The direwolves exchanged conspiratorial glances.

"…until Robert is gone," Jon amended, suddenly fearing that the pack knew exactly how he had hatched Heartwing and would not hesitate to repeat the process. Gods knew they looked like it.

The pack seemed to find this concession acceptable.

Jon gathered the eggs in his arms and brought them into his room.

 _xv._

Myrcella was probably the cleverest of Tyrion's niblings. As such, she waited until her supposed father was drunk before approaching him with her request.

"Sigil pets?" Robert repeated dumbly.

Myrcella nodded, her golden curls bobbing. "Like the Starks' direwolves, Father, or the lions in my great-grandfather's menagerie. Deer are so beautiful and gentle. Surely Tommen and I could tame them even without… abilities… like the Starks have. Even Lady Catelyn and Lord Theon have wolves, and they're no more magical than we are. Please, Father?"

Robert leaned back in his chair; it creaked under his weight. "I'll think about it."

The princess sighed heavily—a bit too heavily, in Tyrion's opinion. He leaned forward slightly, wondering what his niece was up to.

"I suppose it was too much to hope for," she said, her lower lip quivering just a little too much to be entirely real. "After all, Mother would simply hate it if Tommen and I had—"

"You can have one," Robert decreed. "One doe fawn for you, and one stag fawn for Tommen. I'll think of something else for Joffrey so he won't whine about it."

Myrcella smiled like the sun. "Thank you, Father," she said, dipping into a perfect curtsey before walking out of the room, probably to find her little brother.

As she passed Tyrion, the dwarf rose to walk with her. "Well played, dear."

His niece grinned. "Thank you, Uncle."

 _ix._

Over the years, Eddard Stark had become mostly immune to shock. He treated with beings of legend and prepared for war against an ages-old myth. He hosted an Academy of magic in his own home. Just a fortnight ago he'd had to talk with the stable master to make certain that Rickon's unicorn was tame enough to be kept near the southron horses, for the gods' sake. He was accustomed to the strange and bizarre, and it took quite a bit to floor him.

So when he stared at Robert Baratheon in wide-eyed disbelief, it was a true testament to just how surprising he found the king's words.

"All this time, you thought I was _joking_?"

Robert shrugged. "What was I supposed to think, Ned? That one of the least superstitious men I knew just opened up some hogwash school for witchcraft and wizardry or that Cat taught you humor?"

"You... must have passed a dozen laws for me." He searched for an example and blurted out the first one he thought of. "You legalized the use of skinchangers and greenseers for Cat's spy ring!"

"She has a spy ring?" The king frowned. "Isn't that illegal?"

"You legalized that too," Ned reminded him, mildly horrified. Maybe Bloodraven was right and he _should_ just put Jon and his aunt on the Iron Throne. "I have the letter in my study."

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Lyanna's statue seemed to be laughing at them both.

 _vii._

If Tyrion were his good-brother, he'd simply have ordered Eddard Stark to attend him in King's Landing. Gods knew it would be easier than uprooting the entire court (including half the small council and the Hand of the King's entire family) and dragging them to Winterfell. Warmer, too. But Robert did as Robert pleased, and Robert wanted to see with his own eyes what his old friend was really getting up to.

And truthfully, it was a curiosity that Tyrion could understand. After all, nobody was forcing him to come along.

Winterfell rose far in the distance, a vast bulk of gray stone, but what attracted Tyrion's attention was the honor guard that the Starks had sent to greet their king. He stared, wondered if he was seeing things.

Robert pulled up short, gawked. Apparently he'd seen it too. "What in the seven hells is _that_?"

'That' was an enormous furry humanoid, easily four times Tyrion's height and thrice his width, mounted atop a creature even larger and shaggier than itself. _A giant,_ he thought in disbelief, _a giant and a mammoth._

 _What_ had they gotten themselves into?

 _xviii._

Jaime followed the sound of hooting laughter into the courtyard, dreading what he would find. The Northmen hadn't done anything untoward, but in this madhouse, he could never be too certain of anything.

The knight pushed his way through the crowd to see… Ned Stark's younger girl (she was what, ten? One-and-ten?) with his nephew in a headlock.

He groaned softly. Cersei would not be happy about this. Grimacing, he turned to the nearest Northman. " _Why_."

The Northman cackled. "He said something inappropriate to Lady Sansa, so Lady Arya called him on it. Somehow it escalated to him challenging her to a duel." His teeth were a white crescent above his beard. "The little pr—prince didn't know what he was getting into."

Jaime sighed. "None of us did."

 _xi._

When they'd first heard of the king's expedition to Winterfell, Mother and Father had drawn them all aside to explain a few unpleasant truths: the 'royal' children's true parentage, the sheer importance of keeping Robert Baratheon on their side, the oily machinations of so many courtiers, and the… unpleasant mental state of Lysa and Robert Arryn. Mother hadn't wanted to believe that her sister and nephew were at least a little mad, but her sources had been unanimous in their reports. Still, they were family. Perhaps they could help.

Then Sansa actually met the Arryns and found herself questioning her former certainty. Jon (their uncle, not their brother/cousin) was a perfectly lovely old man, but his wife and heir were… difficult.

Sansa and Robb managed to keep pleasant smiles plastered on their faces as their young cousin made a scene of himself. Arya couldn't quite manage that level of false cheer, but she hadn't said anything yet, possibly because she was lodged between the two older siblings who were forced to suffer through this. (Jon—their brother/cousin, not their uncle—had fled as soon as he'd been introduced.) Bran appeared to be either warging or mentally listing the past Lords of Winterfell; he had a glazed look in his eye which could be interpreted either way. Mother and Father were just trying to keep the conversation going.

In hindsight, it was only surprising that Rickon had lasted so long before he snapped.

 _xix._

Ned had not been looking forward to this conversation. He knew it needed to be done; having met Joffrey, there was no way in hell that he'd let the horrible little brat sit on the Iron Throne. (The five Baratheon bastards Jon Arryn had brought along as proof were all much more suitable, even though one of them was literally an infant.) He just hoped that Jory and the other guards could hide the queen's children until Robert's wrath cooled.

"Spit it out already, you three," the king demanded.

Naturally, it was Stannis who broke the silence. "Lord Arryn and I have uncovered evidence of high treason against the throne. We can prove that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are not trueborn Baratheons but bastards born of incest between Queen Cersei and her brother, Ser Jaime Lannister."

A murmur erupted among the lords and ladies that had come to witness this testimony, but no one's reaction was as pronounced as Robert's. The king's jaw flopped uselessly for a long, long moment before he toppled to the side.

When Maester Luwin examined the body, he concluded that Robert had likely been dead before he hit the ground.

* * *

A few details/comments: Bloodraven may or may not have been blocking Varys's spy efforts into the North. Sansa and Robb know about Jon because he decided to tell his siblings when they turned twelve. Arya and her younger brothers aren't quite old enough for that conversation, so they only suspect. Jon and Dany are magic pen pals because Bloodraven. Yes, Gendry is one of the five Baratheon bastards. Ned and Mance Rayder are friends. Jon's got a different Targ name than the one the show gave him because that decision was just plain stupid. The Blackfish recruited the riverlands and the hill tribes for the alliance of the living after meeting Bloodraven. More details/character profiles on my tumblr, Antares8.

Next up: Even more characters crowd into Winterfell. Let me know if there's an amusing character interaction you'd like to see and I'll maybe be able to work it in.


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